


finders, keepers

by smithens



Series: hey, i just met you (and this is crazy) [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Closeted Character, Crush at First Sight, Developing Relationship, During Canon, First Dates, Flirting, Fluff, Gossip, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Pre-Relationship, Scheming, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21603562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: There's something afoot downstairs at Downton Abbey.Mr. Ellis is looking for Mr. Barrow.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: hey, i just met you (and this is crazy) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557004
Comments: 30
Kudos: 198





	finders, keepers

**Author's Note:**

> could not stop thinking about "I'll come find you when I'm released" + wanted to write my own version of how their alliance came about. this is the same universe as in [took no time with the fall](), so consider this a prequel.

"That will be all, Mr. Ellis," Mr. Miller says as he closes the wardrobe, perfunctory.

He doesn't need to be told twice, and he leaves the room promptly.

So promptly that he almost runs over Sir Bruce in the corridor — he humbles himself while giving his apology, then continues on more slowly, pink in the ears.

Like everything else in life, a Royal visit has its pros and cons, many of which overlap. As it is, the likelihood that he would ever risk trampling the toes of the Crown Equerry or Lady-in-Waiting at Buckingham Palace or Sandringham House is so low as to be nearly impossible, but that's not the case in country estates and lesser castles, where served and servant are in near quarters.

If he were like most of his colleagues, being so near to their Majesties and those accompanying them at all hours would be thrilling. He is like very few of them, and it is not.

His position affords him a good deal of privacy and prestige that he would have in no other household in the world, with the caveat that if he were ever to misstep, he should lose it all immediately. The closer he is to those who matter most, the more chance he has of losing good opinion.

On the other hand, touring means he's got fewer people around whose good opinion he can lose: at Downton Abbey there are no Grooms of the Bedchamber present, no senior whips. He has more of a job and less of one at the same time; there's no extra work to be done in some minor Lord's house, so once his valeting duties are finished, he's typically able to carve out a bit of time for himself.

He has managed, somehow, to carve out a whole night.

At least, he has if Wilson hasn't up and changed his mind, which is not unlikely — the man did not enjoy giving him the time in the first place, but he had no rational reservations. Ellis had not hesitated to (tactfully) point this out, and the matter was resolved with a firm reminder that he'd not seen his family over Christmas for the last three years running.

That is, since he was promoted to his current position.

He's sure he won't go this year, either.

On the wrong side of the green baize door he contemplates forgetting to check in with the man before heading into York, but that's a risk he probably oughtn't take.

So he doesn't take it, and is surprised, in fact, when Mr. Wilson all but tells him to shoo. It's hours earlier than the time they'd agreed.

There's something different about downstairs that he can't place his finger on, and it doesn't register until he's on his way to the attics that absolutely none of the resident staff were present just then.

Good for them.

Of course, that means Mr. Barrow wasn't around. A knock at his door once he's in the men's wing tells him he's unlikely to be in his room, also, but he can deal with that later, after he's gotten out of his working clothes and into something suited to dinner at home with his parents and a night of… 

Whatever he's getting himself into with Downton's butler.

They're going to have a beer at the least. And at the most, because even if he's right, he can hardly move _that_ fast, but beer with a man from work and beer with a man you'd like to step out with are two very, very different occasions.

It's not going to be a trial choosing what to wear; he only has one suit with him, but it _is_ going to be a trial determining how in the hell he's going to go about seeing in what way Mr. Barrow's interested.

Or _if_ he's interested. Ellis hasn't exactly given him a chance to reject him.

...he feels badly about it, but not nearly so much as he should.

It's something to ponder while he does his tie, at least.

He wants to be right, he hopes he's right, but acting only on wants and hopes leads one down dangerous paths. 

Of which there are no shortage, here. Although Mr. Barrow is the most handsome thing he's laid eyes on in ages, and sharp, cheeky, capable, popular downstairs, all good and appealing things and, in a way he can't put words to, just someone who draws his attention like very few he can remember have… he lives and works in a country house renowned for its upstairs scandals and domestic dramatics.

Scandals and dramatics he'd assumed were nothing but evening papers nonsense and servants' hall tall tales until he'd arrived downstairs and learned that there were, indeed, two _employed_ married couples, another developing, and a damn baby, not to mention the multiple suspected murders and the princess and the pauper saga with the chauffeur.

Much of which he'd just learned a good deal about at Raby.

_"Are you acquainted at all with Brancaster Castle, Mr. Ellis?" she asked._

_He sipped at his tea._

_"I'm familiar."_

_And wouldn't she have a rude awakening if she knew why._

_"There was a hunting party, about two years ago," and she proceeded to say things worth forgetting regarding the background of its hosts, " …anyhow, her Ladyship was in attendance."_

_"I take it you were, also."_

_Hardly impressive._

_"Yes, well, I say it only because… the Earl of Grantham was there, and their Majesties are to be at Downton Abbey next, aren't they?"_

_"That they are, Miss Barnard."_

_"Oh, you might call me Miss Whitman," she said, demure. "I'll never mind it."_

_"I gather your housekeeper might."_

_"You needn't say it in front of her."_

_Cognisant, he took up a spoon to stir sugar into his tea just as she made to touch his hand, and then pretended to ignore the awkward quickness with which she clasped her fingers together upon the table._

_"Speaking of Downton Abbey, they're sending me down first thing tomorrow," he said mildly._

_When her face seemed to droop, he did his best to give her a charming smile — best to keep in good graces._

_And he was keen to figure out where she was going with talk of Brancaster, and what the Abbey had to do with it._

_"But the King and Queen don't go until Friday?"_

_"As you may have learned, there's a good deal has to come beforehand."_

_Across the hall, Miss Lawton eyed them warily — he knew very well she thought it improper, engaging at all with resident staff, but until a few minutes ago he'd had no qualms with Miss Whitman's character, and she looked fine enough._

_The latter was more important, of course, he was only speaking to her at all for appearances._

_"Well, we'll… be sorry to see it."_

_By 'sorry' she must have meant 'absolutely cock-a-hoop'. No one was ever sorry to have their order restored._

_"As will I, Miss Whitman."_

_She giggled._

_"Since you must go to Downton Abbey, you'd best do it prepared, is all. I couldn't make these things up if I tried…"_

He doesn't give a damn about any of it but the marriages, because that's worrying, where Mr. Barrow's concerned.

Then, if marriage isn't a problem for the Earl, it's a marvel that _the most handsome thing he's laid eyes on in ages_ is unattached.

And it can't be owing to his personality that he isn't, because he's got an excellent one.

But he may have his reasons.

…if his suspicions are wrong, this is going to be a very awkward evening. He can keep up an act, that's a talent of his, but it's much harder to do when you're interested in someone.

Maybe he'll get lucky and lose that interest if it becomes certain it won't be requited. Happens sometimes, though not as often as he'd like. Those friendships end before they've started, because he's not about to mope about trying to get over someone who's never fathomed the idea that a man could take a shine to him, or, not while the someone's still around, at least.

A door closing in the passage startles him, and he finishes dressing in a more efficient manner than he'd started.

Won't learn anything about Mr. Barrow until they're together, though, so he sets himself to finding him. It looks to be nearly an hour's drive to York; he'd wanted time for them to walk about before Mum's expecting him. The extra time is an advantage, so long as each of them have done what they needed for today.

His understanding was that Mr. Barrow hadn't _anything_ to do for the day.

Well, he's giving him something, if he can help it.

When Ellis goes downstairs, the place is bustling again, all hands to work, Royal and Downton alike.

It's not going to be easy to find him in a house he still can't navigate properly. Instead of standing about trying to match names to faces or going back and forth between every room, he decides to ask around.

For efficiency's sake.

And for curiosity's.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

It's just her in the sitting room, door cracked open.

"Mr. Ellis!" she says, standing, and then they speak at the same time:

"Mrs. Webb's all trifling about in the laundry thinking she knows what's — "

"Would you happen to know where I might find – "

Mrs. Hughes stops speaking abruptly. "Er, if it's her you're after."

"No," he says. He has to press his lips together to keep from laughing. 

She narrows her eyes at him, but it's unwarranted, in his opinion — he's responsible for his own actions and his own tasks, and unlike most of the entourage, his job cannot possibly be done by a member of the resident staff. 

No need for bad blood.

"I'm sure she must be putting you on your beam-ends," Ellis says, aiming for kindness. "You'd never be the first, mind; the woman's a runaway train when she wishes to be — overmuch efficient, yet headed in no predictable direction."

"Well, don't you worry about my beam-ends, Mr. Ellis, not even a Royal train runs without steam." 

That he does laugh at.

She looks as though she regrets it no sooner than the words are out of her mouth. "Er, we've certainly no quarrel with _you_ , mind, but – "

" – you do have a quarrel?"

She frowns.

"Well," she says again. "Is that not to be expected?"

"I don't blame you one bit," he tells her. Her eyes widen slightly, and she seems near to a smile.

He knows his strengths, so he smiles back before asking his question again.

She tilts her head at him.

"Mr. Barrow?"

"Mr. Barrow."

"Last I heard he'd found himself a task to take charge of — shall I fetch Mr. Carson for you, Mr. Ellis, or is it, erm, personal?"

There was something in her face, he thinks, when she said _personal,_ that gives him hope, but it's gone before he can focus on it. She's all servants' blank.

Foolish to hope at all. These things aren't spoken about; the woman has no reason to know anything of Mr. Barrow's private life. An ordinary woman wouldn't assume that one man looking for another had anything other than quotidian intentions.

"You could say it is," he says, perhaps unduly cautious, and he worries that he's coming off as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "I'm taking him out for a drink this evening."

Something men do all the time, go out for drinks.

Ellis takes a moment to thank God and his parents that women will do just about anything if he only grins at them, then adds, more jovial, "this task anything I might help him with?"

But Mrs. Hughes seems as though she's been showered with cold water.

"Oh, nothing to concern yourself with, Mr. Ellis," she says brusquely. She wipes her hands on the front of her dress and manages to look down her nose at him from below, very severe.

Like every other matronly housekeeper in England (though this one actually is a matron, isn't she), she has lines that cannot be crossed. Also like every other matronly housekeeper in England, the line starts at someone else daring to a job in place of staff in the household. 

"He's a very capable man, Mr. Barrow, and if you ask me I don't think he'd take kindly to someone offering help where it isn't wanted."

And he's toeing it, that line, or she thinks that he is, so he needs to step back.

"Besides, I'm sure you've plenty of duties to occupy yourself with for the Royal Household –"

"My job is done for now, Mrs. Hughes," he says smoothly. Realising that may be interpreted as _I'm looking for another one,_ he adds, "no duty left but to give Mr. Barrow a good time this evening."

She blinks at him.

Why in God's name did he say it like that.

" — don't suppose he gets out much, grand house like this," and for good measure, "and there are plenty more girls around in York than in Downton."

"Ah," she says, and she cranes her neck to get a look around him, down the hall. 

He suspects there's nothing actually worth looking at, but he's not about to turn and find out, either.

"…yes, well, you'd be right in that — er, I'll send him along if I see him, Mr. Ellis."

He knows a dismissal when he hears one.

"Thank you kindly, Mrs. Hughes."

So it's onward to the kitchen, which is bustling.

Courbet's not around, though he can't fathom why. Still, he doesn't need anyone from the Royal household learning he's taking a man from the resident staff out with him on his night off, so he's thankful for it.

But Mr. Barrow's not around, either, and Mrs. Patmore doesn't exactly take to his presence. Makes sense, a kitchen's a castle, although he gets the impression that's not all her problem is.

"What do _you_ want with Mr. _Barrow_?"

The loud whirring noise stops.

The undercook — Daisy, her name is Daisy, she's been chatty bordering on impertinent since the moment he arrived, which he finds more entertaining than he ought, given the circumstances — whips around, bowl in an arm and electric whisk in hand.

"I'm sure Mr. Ellis has his reasons, Mrs. Patmore," she says, her nose scrunched up. "Er, what's it you wanted from us, exactly?"

"I'm trying to find him," he tells her. 

"Suppose he doesn't want to be found," says the cook.

" _Mrs. Patmore,_ " Daisy hisses.

He doesn't falter for one second. 

"Oh, that can't be it," he says, with a smile, "but I'll be sorry if it's so."

Muttered, but audible: "ought to be sorry already, meddling in – "

"We'll tell him you're lookin' if he comes in, Mr. Ellis," Daisy interrupts loudly, "but you couldn't really blame 'im if he weren't keen on hangin' about the kitchens for the Royal circus, could you – "

She's a firebrand.

He bites his lips.

"Daisy! Who d'you think you're speaking to, valet to Dick Mulcahey? Get back to that before it curdles!"

"Thank you, Daisy," Ellis tells her, and he backs out of the kitchen before he can embarrass himself by bursting into laughter.

Downton Abbey is unlike any place he's ever been in his life.

As he's leaving, he hears the young woman set on the cook in earnest, speaking perhaps more loudly than she thinks she is: "Y'don't understand, Mrs. Patmore, Andy heard from Mr. Molesley that Miss Baxter said that…"

No shortage of gossip in country houses, that's for certain. Nothing he much cares to involve himself in, either.

He's halfway down the corridor when he hears a cry of, "you mean, _he's_ going out with _him?"_

A question like that could mean any number of things, but he tries not to dwell on it — no use getting his hopes up nor discouraging himself, so early on.

 _What you want is something that takes place behind closed doors,_ he reminds himself, _always._

They wouldn't know; if they did, they wouldn't think kindly of it; certainly they wouldn't go about telling strangers.

The servants' hall, where he ought to have checked first, is empty but for a lady's maid. She's arranging bottles in a cabinet.

"Ah, Mrs. Bates, I – "

She slams the cabinet door shut and whips around.

He's taken aback.

"Yes?"

Ellis clears his throat. "…I'm looking for Mr. Barrow."

"He's busy," says Mrs. Bates, very matter of fact, brushing off her hands. She picks up an abandoned tea tray from the table and begins to walk out of the hall.

So he's heard.

He follows her to the scullery.

"Is he? Was under the impression he'd today off."

Different folk give different sorts of explanations; it's worth acting like he's not just had this conversation twice in a row.

"It's a household matter," she says, somehow nonchalant and wary at the same time. "I don't think he'd have much wanted to bother the Royal staff over it, but I'm sure he'll be happy to join you, when it's done with."

 _Will he?_ And if he will, just how much?

She's not curt, she's even smiling a little, but he can tell she means her words to be final.

He's beginning to think there's something afoot downstairs, and that the whole of the staff are in on it, whatever it is.

"Oh, I'm not bothered at all."

She hardly has time to raise her eyebrows before he's halfway down the passage in the other direction and calling, "thank you for your help, Mrs. Bates."

Laundry next, though that's a housekeeper's domain, not a butler's. 

Worth a try anyway.

He waits until Anna and Dorothy have departed, tittering about how the water's not as nice as in London for washing — no accounting for taste or logic with those girls, the water in London's God-awful no matter what one's doing with it — before stepping in and finding… 

"Miss Baxter, isn't it?"

She's the one who gave Mr. Barrow the go ahead, he remembers, and they were talkative with one another at breakfast this morning and supper last night. She's been nothing but perfectly cordial to the Royal staff, though he's noted some raised brows and side glances — but nothing untoward, and nothing he can blame her for. There's an air about her that makes him think she's one to be confided in. 

Not about everything, of course, but perhaps about some things.

In his estimation, she's the woman most likely to tell him anything he can make do with.

The woman startles at the sound of her name. "Mr. Ellis?"

"Do you know where I might find Mr. Barrow?"

Her lips quirk.

"I wish I could help, but I haven't a clue," she says, not unkindly. "He has something to wrap up, I believe."

"So I've heard."

When he looks her in the eyes, Miss Baxter falters.

"…I suppose he wouldn't have wanted to inconvenience you with it." She turns away, back to folding gown slips, and then adds, "the business was, erm, rather last minute."

There is something about the look on her face as she stares down at the garments on the table that makes him think he can be more plain.

"You know him very well, I take it."

She lifts her head.

"Yes, I suppose I do."

Cautious, regarding. It tells him more than she thinks it does.

"We've known one another a long time."

He nods, considering this — they're a brother and sister sort, by the look of them.

"Any idea how long he'll be held up?" asks Ellis, casually. "I'm beginning to think I've put him off."

He says it in jest, blithe. Couldn't care less. He has no such thought, really; he's certain whatever everyone's on about is both a legitimate task requiring Mr. Barrow's attention and one which has very little if anything to do with him.

But if they're close…

"Oh, you haven't," she says quickly. "Only I don't believe he was expecting you to be released so early in the day."

…she may provide him with some more information, and with her haste to correct him, she has.

He smiles and nods. She seems to relax.

"So I – I couldn't say, when he'll be finished."

And she looks genuinely sorry for it, too.

"Would you tell him I'm looking for him, if you happen to find him before I do?"

"Of course, Mr. Ellis."

He's about to step out when he sees her open her mouth and shut it again, hesitant, and then he stops in his tracks.

Miss Baxter seems to steel herself and then falter again several times before she says, barely loud enough that he can hear her, "I hope that you both have a nice time, in York."

Heartened, he nods.

"T – Mr. Barrow rather needs one, to be honest with you." Louder. With more confidence.

Ellis surveys her. He's gotten the lay of the land at Downton Abbey, and now that he's alone with her he thinks he was spot on about her place in things: the woman's an observer; she follows, she doesn't lead. And she's the nurturing type, too — so is the other lady's maid, and the housekeeper as well, if he's honest, there's a good crew of women here, but she's _quiet_ about it, Miss Baxter. 

At supper the night before she'd seemed the one most willing to engage Mr. Barrow in conversation, despite how gloomy he'd been in demeanor compared to the day's breakfast.

Which was owing, presumably, to the change in his place at the table.

It strikes him as crude, altering the status of a butler mere days before an event like this, but he's used to well-ordered households falling into arrears upon their arrival. He'll make it his business if the two of them get on, but it's not his business now.

No use mentioning it, though he almost does.

"He works very hard, I gather."

It takes her a moment, but she smiles. "He wouldn't like me to say just how much."

He may have underestimated her, and if he has, he certainly wasn't the first to do so. She almost invites it.

A trait to her advantage, if she knows how to use it.

Thoughtful, and careful to keep a guarded expression, he asks, "wouldn't he?"

The question flusters her, but she recovers quickly.

"Mr. Barrow wouldn't like me to say much of anything about him, Mr. Ellis," she says softly. "He's a very private man."

 _A very private man_ and _living and working in service_ do not often go well together.

He knows that better than most.

Ellis takes a deep breath and says, "so am I."

Her eyes widen. 

He could throw caution to the wind, right now, he absolutely could — there are ways of going about it discreetly, and he likes to think he's mastered them. And Christ, he wants nothing more than to _ask,_ and she looks as though she's on the verge of sharing something in confidence, herself, but they're at an impasse. 

The moment passes when the Royal housemaids come fluttering back in. Dorothy looks at him, looks at Miss Baxter, and turns up her nose.

Two birds with one stone, he reckons.

"Thank you, Miss Baxter," he says politely, and he leaves with heart and thoughts racing.

After having resigned himself to waiting in the servants' hall with only Miss Lawton for company and then growing bored with it almost immediately, Ellis finds Mr. Barrow halfway up the stairs to the attic, facing the banister, not noticing him.

He's out of his livery and in a suit; his hair is styled, but less meticulously, loose in the front. His profile is striking, and Ellis is taken by the sight in a way he hadn't expected to be. Maybe it's not only the clothes and the hair, the figure he cuts, although of course that's all very attractive, but the expression on his face, which is pensive and a touch diabolic. Or the air he has, considered and assured.

If anyone were to ask, Ellis would have positively no idea how to describe the precise nature of his infatuation with Mr. Barrow — what causes it, why it came on so quickly, why it lingers before they've come to know one another and after he's made every attempt to think of him as only the resident butler of the week, a fleeting face in an unimportant house to forget once he's departed and not think of again.

He is lucky that no one will.

It isn't until there's a disruptive noise, presumably from downstairs, to draw him out of the reverie such that he remembers to speak: "there you are."

As he turns, Mr. Barrow tucks what appears to be several folded papers into his pocket.

"What, were you looking for me?"

"I thought you'd be downstairs."

His lips quirk. "I'm not on duty, Mr. Ellis; I've been having my own way."

"Staff seemed to think you were up to something important," Ellis says casually.

Mr. Barrow's eyebrows raise just slightly. "I am," he says shortly, and he walks down to meet him on the first landing.

His wit has been a positive force since their arrival, but Ellis suspects it can be barbed.

"Did I say you weren't, Mr. Barrow?" he asks, meeting his eyes. _See what I'm showing you,_ he's thinking, _pick up what I lay down._

But he doesn't take the bait. 

"When are we leaving, again?"

He blinks.

Somehow, he'd entirely forgotten why he's been traipsing all over looking for him.

"Er, now, I hoped, but we don't have to – "

"Speak for yourself, Mr. Ellis," says Mr. Barrow, bordering on acerbic. "I'm hardly about to put off getting out of this place." He pauses; his voice softens slightly, develops a note of hesitance that wasn't there a moment ago. "Wait for me by the door?"

"Gladly."

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't flirting.

"Won't be long."

"Take all the time you need, Mr. Barrow."

Mr. Barrow looks at him with thinly-veiled disbelief, _at what, I wonder,_ then turns and heads back up the stairs.

When he's back down to meet him at the entrance, however, he's breathing in a way that makes Ellis think he didn't take any time at all.

And there are plenty of reasons he might be hurried, in all of this, but the sight of him flushed and breathing quickly… 

Should not be something he is pondering in the middle of the afternoon.

He looks up at the ceiling to stop himself from staring.

They're interrupted just as he's donned his jacket and Ellis is making to get the door for him.

"Is it done, Mr. Barrow – "

Mr. Bates stops short when he sees the addressed isn't alone.

"It will be, Mr. Bates," says Mr. Barrow evenly, tugging on his gloves, "so long as you remember to do as I said."

Without reacting to any of Ellis's numerous attempts at questioning eye contact, Mr. Barrow dons his coat, then crosses him to hold open the door and wave him out.

It shuts behind him.

Bewildered, Ellis finds himself standing on the porch with only his muddled thoughts for company.

"…is what done?" he asks, when the man appears again a moment later.

Mr. Barrow closes the door firmly, puts his hat on his head. "Nothing to trouble you with."

Third or fourth time he's heard something like that today.

"Suppose I care to be troubled, Mr. Barrow?" 

To his credit, Mr. Barrow stumbles — a crease in his brow, a part of his lips — for only a moment before recovering.

They start walking.

"I need to send a telegram," he says carefully.

He's got an excess of either caution or uncertainty, in Ellis's opinion, but that may not be a bad thing. The former could be beneficial, actually.

Unless he's so cautious as to give nothing away at all.

"Simple enough," replies Ellis. "We can swing by the post office."

His voice is an even, attractive drawl: "if I'd known you'd be off two hours earlier than you said you would I'd have done it already."

"I like to be punctual, for the things that matter."

"Sure everything matters, with your job," with something of a smirk on his face.

He has a devil-may-care streak in him somewhere.

"Some things more than others," Ellis says, making a show of putting his gloves on. Just when he thinks he's caught Mr. Barrow looking as he does it, the man steps ahead of him; he finds himself startled by the unexpected need to keep pace. "A telegram's not hard; I don't mind."

"You might."

"Nevertheless, Mr. Barrow, it doesn't sound as much trouble as you're making it out to be."

Because he's obviously not telling him everything.

Mr. Barrow's steps slow until he's stopped, at which point he turns around to give Ellis a look that he recognises, contemplative and searching. It says, _who are you_ , and, _can I trust you._

For an instant, Ellis is taken over by the absurd fantasy that he is about to be kissed. The mind is a funny thing: it fills in blanks and trods paths with startling accuracy, until it doesn't, and then you're in a pickle.

It has been a very long time since he's seen the man who last looked at him in such a way.

The reply is only, "hm," and then they're once more on their way to the garage, Mr. Barrow evidently considering, Ellis intently resolving to be less damn _smitten._

A man can only take so many too-long glances and accidental touches until the penny drops.

He's hoping it'll land tails, when it does, and he thinks maybe it hasn't quite yet reached the point of falling.

As they cross the stableyard, Ellis places a hand on Mr. Barrow's back, in the middle of his shoulder blades, gives a gentle press.

"Thing is, Mr. Ellis," begins Mr. Barrow, with a strain in his voice so slight that Ellis wouldn't have noticed if he weren't paying very close attention — and one that he suspects may not have been there if not for the touch.

He lets his arm fall back to his side.

"…I need to send it from Westminster."

This is the final, pivotal piece to what until now has been a nonsense jigsaw. The Downton folk may be something out of a girls' weekly, but they are clever, he'll give them that.

And given what he knows about them now, they damn well may be able to pull it off.

Steadfast, Mr. Barrow keeps his eyes straight forward.

It's charming, his resolve, and Ellis only just stops himself from laughing. "Don't know if two hours would've been time enough to be there and back before I wanted you."

_Subtlety is safest, and that was not subtle._

"Well, that's why I've got friends in high places, isn't it."

He knows all about repartée, this one.

With every word that comes out of his mouth, every step they take, every glance, he's that much more taken by him. It's the most foolish crush he can recall having in years — and on a man he's just met and knows little about, no less.

He asks, "higher places than mine?" and accompanies the words with a grin, for good measure. 

Mr. Barrow turns his head and fixes him with a searching stare, unconvinced. 

"High enough."

So, nowhere close, he reckons.

"Better view from up where I am, I think."

After many attempts, it is this remark that succeeds in flustering him.

Without a second thought, Ellis takes advantage.

"Telegram does sound ambitious," he says blithely.

"Oh, ambition's not the problem," returns Mr. Barrow, back on his feet. "Got plenty of that."

An encouraging admission.

"All the same, Mr. Barrow, I wonder — would a telephone call do the trick?"

**Author's Note:**

> find me as [@combeferre on tumblr](https://combeferre.tumblr.com)!


End file.
